I stared back at her. "If you are Belinda to humans and Bellurif to Divians, on my planet you might be called Bell. A bell is a metal object that makes a melodious sound."
"I know what a bell is, you idiot." Only half her usual voices spoke the words — the rest of her mouths hissed angrily, as if I had demeaned her intelligence. "And what sort of honorifics do you use? Princess Bell? Queen Bell? Saint Bell?"
"None of those," I said. "You would just be Bell. A bell is a metal object that makes a melodious sound… when struck."
Festina placed her foot heavily on my toe in a Gesture Of Admonishment.
"So," said the stripy male Cashling, "I suppose my name would have to be Rye."
"Yes. Rye is a type of grain that can be made into a beverage."
"A good beverage?"
"Opinions differ," Festina said. "Now, if you’d like us to introduce ourselves—" "No," Lady Bell interrupted. "You’re slaves. You have no names. You may think you do, but we’ll soon wipe that out of you."
"Before you do anything irreversible," said Festina, "we’d like to talk to your prophet about ransom."
"Would you really?" Lord Rye asked. "Then go ahead. I’m the prophet."
Vexatious Bickering
Lady Bell whirled on him. "No," she snapped. Many of her mouths made sharp under-hisses. "Today I’m the prophet."
"You’re mistaken, darling." The word "darling" was stressed most oddly; as with the Cashlings’ attempt at laughter, I got the impression Lord Rye was endeavoring to imitate something he did not understand. "You were the prophet yesterday. At that rally on Jalmut."
"That was two days ago, darling. Therefore you were prophet yesterday, and it’s my turn again."
"But I didn’t do anything prophetic yesterday — we spent the whole day just getting free of Jalmut airspace. Darling."
"That’s not my fault, darling darling. You had plenty of time to do holy work. You could have whipped up a sacred revelation."
"One doesn’t whip up revelations," Lord Rye said with many supplementary hisses. "They’re supposed to come naturally. And they haven’t of late." He made a whining noise. "I think I have prophet’s block."
"Then I definitely should be prophet today." The lady turned to us all, sweeping her hands outward in a gracious gesture. "My friends — by which I mean, my worthless alien chattel — I am the Exalted Prophet Bell. Just a moment."
She reached to the neck of her spacesuit, slipped some sort of latch, and removed her helmet. Underneath she looked exactly like her suit… which is to say, frost green dappled with violet bits. The bits were not clean-edged pictures like the ones on her clothes, but they were similar in size and color. Either the woman had tattooed herself to match her suit, or the suit had been decorated with little images that were chosen to be close matches for the natural spottles on the lady’s skin.
She had no discernible eyes, nose, or mouth… or rather, she had numerous pocks and indentations all over her head which probably served as the usual facial organs, but when a creature has dozens of small eyes instead of two normalsized ones, it is just not the same at all. How, for example, can one tell where the person is looking? And how can one read emotional expressions when the alien’s face cannot smile, pout or frown? Perhaps that is why the Cashlings always moved with extravagant gestures, waving their hands and bobbing their bodies — with no facial features to convey emotion, they were forced to act everything out.
"That’s better," Bell said as mouths all over her face sucked at the Hemlock’s air. "Now you wished to discuss ransom? I’m amenable. Your Outward Fleet has notoriously deep pockets."
"We don’t need to bring the Admiralty into this," Festina replied. "I can pay all our ransoms with property I have ready to hand."
"Property?" Bell repeated. "You have no property, slave. The ship is ours. Its equipment is ours. Even your clothes are ours… although Miss See-Through Savage can keep her flea-bitten jacket. Dis gust ing."
"I was thinking of a different sort of property," Festina told her. "Intellectual property."
"Oh merde," said Lord Rye, with many mouths sighing. "You aren’t going to offer us military secrets, are you?" By now, he too had removed his helmet; unsurprisingly, his head was striped red-and-white like his suit. "Some crusade thirty years ago accepted military secrets as a ransom, then couldn’t sell them to anyone. Nobody cared."
"Don’t be ridiculous, darling," Lady Bell told him, "that’s a complete myth. A legend. Probably started by the Outward Fleet itself to discourage espionage." She turned back to Festina. "What kind of military secrets are we talking about? Access codes? Crypto algorithms? Names of spies in Cashling space?"
"I didn’t say I was offering military secrets," Festina replied.
"Then what are you offering?"
"Military secrets. But not the kind you think. These secrets are fat, wet, and juicy. The kind a news agency would pay millions for. And it’s all yours if you’ll let us go."
Festina began the story of Alexander York and his expose. Since I had heard this tale before, I did not pay attention; instead, I looked for something in the transport bay I might find amusing. There was very little there — I could not spot the Pollisand hiding in tree paintings, and the rest of the room was bare… except for the people, of course: Festina, the Cashlings, Aarhus, Uclod, Lajoolie… and Nimbus.
The cloud man was floating some distance away from the rest of our party. He had clearly been offended by Rye dismissing Zaretts as a vassal race; therefore, Nimbus had withdrawn, hovering like a storm cloud against the rear wall of the chamber. As his sibling-in-Shaddillhood, I did not like to see him upset… and anyway, it was tedious listening to Festina speak of things I already knew, so I sidled away from the group and went to offer Nimbus some sisterly consolation.
Umushu
"Hello," I said softly. "How are you feeling?"
Since he did not have eyes, Nimbus could not glare in bitter remonstrance; but the shudder that went through his mist conveyed a similar response. "Why should you care about the feelings of a vassal race?"
"Do not blame me for an alien’s words." Lowering my voice, I added, "In my opinion, these prophets are arrogant and hurtful. Are all Cashlings like that?"
"They’re all fools," Nimbus answered in a fierce whisper. "Dangerous ones."
I looked back at the Cashlings’ spindly bodies; they had shown they could move most quickly, but they did not look strong enough to punch with any great effect. "How are they dangerous?" I asked.
A tendril of his mist swirled toward me, brushing my cheek like tingly dust. "They’re umushu," the tendril whispered softly into my ear.
"What is that?" I whispered back.
"A fictional monster from Divian folklore. A corpse whose spirit has departed but who doesn’t fall down. Going through the motions of life, but no longer truly conscious."
"Lord Rye and Lady Bell are zombies?" I asked with delectable horror.
"Not real ones… but they might as well be." The dusty tendril of his being still hovered close to my ear, brushing lightly against my skin. "There’s something missing in Cashlings: some important spark has burnt out. Admiral Ramos told you they waste most of their lives with entertainment, bought from other species; and they spend the rest of their time on crusades, which are just another form of hollow amusement. Crusades don’t really mean anything to them — it’s just that their ancestors organized crusades, so the current generation does too. Do you think those prophets genuinely have anything to say about life?"